


Hero Worship

by Vrunka



Series: Adventures of Sentaiman [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Identity Porn, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Sentai skin inspiration, Shimadacest, blame discord, it's all their fault, sort of super hero AU I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 11:22:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10989921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: Hero worship: (n) excessive admiration for someone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is all discord and Verycoolperson's fault. Alley blow jobs and mistaken identities it hit all my inspiration points so...enjoy I guess.
> 
> This is an AU where the brothers aren't yakuza or least have been sheltered from the family life.

It isn't a crush.

No matter what Genji says or implies or teases about. Hanzo does not have a crush.

He stands in front of the comic store with his arms crossed. The cardboard cut out of Super Neo Sentaiman is gaudily lit, the newest issue of Shonen Jump is stacked next to it, covers glossy in the light.

Hanzo doesn't care about the manga, not really. Most of the comics within will be about other heroes, other titles. But this is the first issue to feature Sentaiman.

And that means something.

He fiddles with his jacket. Tugging the hem down, smoothing the front. Like he could be using the reflection to fix his appearance, rather than staring up at the cardboard cut out of Japan's newest Real Life super hero.

He's twenty-four. It's ridiculous. To be obsessed with a person crazy enough to dress up and run around the city fighting crime. To keep the magazine interviews and cover spreads stashed under his bed. To have a crush on someone who exists only as a cosplay persona dreamed up by a twelve-year-old.

It's ridiculous.

He's twenty-four.

And yet here he is.

Genji will be expecting him soon, they're supposed to be meeting for lunch.

And yet here he is.

Unmoving.

His eyes linger over the lines and curves of Sentaiman's body. The costume is so tight, form-fitting around the sides, framing the obliques...and the crotch.

Hanzo swallows.

And he goes inside.

\--

Genji is waiting by the time Hanzo gets to the restaurant. It's a little bit terrible, Hanzo was hoping to arrive first but his foray into the store has ruined that.

And now Genji has seen the bag. He smiles and waves as he sees Hanzo, big motions, theatrical as always. His eyes glitter with mischief.

"You're late," he says, pointing an accusing finger as Hanzo sits opposite him. Before Hanzo has the chance to put the bag beneath the table, Genji has leaned across to grab it. "What's so important you keep your precious younger brother waiting, huh?"

Hanzo bites his lip, but allows Genji to take the plastic bag when he tugs on it. To fight would make it seem important and would make Genji's teasing all the more insistent.

And it isn't important.

At all.

"Books," Hanzo says, offhandedly. "I was...I lost track of time browsing is all."

He bought three books, along with the weekly Shonen Jump, just to solidify this lie. Insurance against Genji's snooping.

Genji makes a face as he pulls them out of the bag. A comic pulling of his lips, all in jest of course but Hanzo still finds himself blushing a little bit.

"Little old for manga, aren't you?" Genji says with a chuckle, shaking the first red herring book in Hanzo's direction. He turns it over to look at the spine, the back cover, then lays it aside. The second gets the same treatment, base perusal, nothing too bad.

And then he gets to the Sentaiman issue.

Genji pauses. It's so quick Hanzo almost misses it--the way he licks his lips, the way his eyes flicker to Hanzo's face and back.

"I didn't know they were making a manga of this guy," Genji says. He picks the books up with both hands. His fingers frame Sentaiman's metal lips. Hanzo has to force himself to keep staring at Genji's face. Keep his face as neutral as possible.

"I guess," he says with a shrug.

"You guess? You bought it," Genji says. He flips the magazine open, thumbs through the pages. The two of them sit silently as Genji reads.

Hanzo doesn't know what to do. He stares over Genji's shoulder until Genji lowers he comic with a grin.

"Well, Hanzo," he says. "What did you buy it for then?"

Hanzo practiced the answer to this question. It was a safe answer, one of the comics that appeared in every issue of Shonen that he bought. But right now, looking at Genji who is grinning at him all teeth against his pink lips, Hanzo cannot for the life of him remember what that series was.

The blank must show on his face, the hint of panic because Genji closes the book with a laugh. A sharp, rolling chuckle.

"I'm only kidding," he says. "You don't have to tell me." He bites his lip again, touches the cover, traces the visor of Sentaiman's helmet. "What a weirdo though, huh? Who would have guessed some...freak in a costume would have stirred up so much popularity?"

"I don't think he's a freak," Hanzo says. Just a little too quickly. Genji looks at him, eyebrows raised and Hanzo backpedals. "That is...I mean. He's helping the city, right? Helping the people? It's only natural that people would...would..."

"Idolize him?" Genji says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Teasing.

Hanzo looks down at his hands. "Appreciate him."

"Do you think he could be hot under that mask, big brother," Genji asks. His voice has dropped to below even conversational. A goading, teasing whisper.

Hanzo looks up. He's crimson, he knows it. The heat of his blush is stinging and uncomfortable. "Genji..." he says. He means it in warning, though he is not sure his tone carries.

Not with the way Genji smiles with his teeth again. "Hey," Genji says, "it's okay, it's okay. He's got a nice ass, you know? Way he wears that uniform to frame it. You're not a perv or anything for noticing, Hanzo. It's like he wants you to, right?"

"Enough!" Hanzo snatches the book back. Throws all of them viciously in the plastic bag.

He's going to leave, he's going to go home. This was stupid. Of course Genji can't just leave it be, leave well enough alone. He's got his finger on the pulse of everything Hanzo does and he just has to keep the pressure up.

"Come on, Hanzo," he's saying, standing when Hanzo does, "I was kidding. Just kidding. I didn't mean anything by it..."

It hurts all the same. It always has. Genji's good natured teasing feels too much like criticism. And Hanzo hates feeling so judged.

"I'm going home," Hanzo says. Unable to storm off and leave Genji the way he wants. The good brother, even when Genji is being a dick.

Genji frowns. He palms the back of his head. "I've got work," he says. "Can we just eat lunch? I...I won't tease you about your crush any more, okay?"

"It's not a crush."

"Okay. Sure. Can we...just." Genji moves his hands. Indicates the table. He's blushing now too, eyes downcast, looking thoroughly chastised. And Hanzo has always had something of a soft spot for his brother.

He sighs. Places the bag back down on the table. And sits. Genji smiles, genuine this time, his lips curling up at the edges, his cheeks dimpling.

Hanzo pretends it doesn't mean as much to him as it does.

\--

It's not that the streets of Hanamura are particularly unsafe. It has some of the dangers of a big city like Tokyo, mostly muggers--kids really, looking to make a quick buck off tourists in to see the castle.

Neo Sentaiman is almost a wholly unnecessary phenomena.

Hanzo doesn't get why the man has effected the city the way he has. Why he's effected Hanzo. But as Hanzo reads the comic he's bought he realizes that maybe it goes a little deeper than he'd wanted to admit.

Sentaiman, shirtless.

An artist's rendition but still.

With the mask still on and towel about his hips, some sort of bathhouse gag, but Hanzo's mouth is suddenly dry.

His throat itches.

The black and white image sticks in Hanzo's mind even as he snaps the magazine shut and pushes it beneath his bed with the other evidences of his shame.

That night, pretending that he isn't, Hanzo jerks off thinking about those abs, the gentle slope of the hero's belly. His sturdy thighs.

That expressionless mask, hiding any hint of Sentaiman's identity, his emotions. And it's better that way, it's so much better that way.

Hanzo rocks his hips, his fingers tightening their grip. He imagines Sentaiman saving him, chuckling beneath his mask, offering Hanzo his cock when Hanzo asks how he can repay him. Pushing Hanzo against the wall, all big anonymous and mysterious muscles.

And it's good.

It's so good.

\--

And maybe because it's so good, Hanzo is cursed to have it happen.

\--

The way it comes down is utterly ridiculous.

He's supposed to be meeting Genji at the arcade but of course Genji is late because he's almost always late when it comes to familial obligations. Hanzo doesn't know why he didn't just switch shifts with someone if working in the morning was going to be such a hassle--but Genji had avoided the question when Hanzo asked him and Hanzo gets the distinct feeling it's because Genji doesn't really want to go anyway.

Genji hates their extended family.

But their Aunt and Uncle are the executors of their parents' will.

And so the occasional check in is required.

But Genji is late.

Of course, of course, of course.

Hanzo huffs a sigh. He taps his toe against the door frame of the arcade, debates leaving without Genji. He can just catch the train if he does. But Genji had promised and so Hanzo dallies until almost half an hour has passed since the appointed meeting time.

And Hanzo has to go.

He sighs again. And heads for the station through the backstreets. It's stupid, maybe, but it cuts a good five minutes off the walk. He has just rounded the third corner; where the sounds from the arcade and the main street have faded, when he hears the footsteps.

Coming from in front of him.

He thinks nothing of it, someone else, utilizing the cramped and twisted alleys to get wherever they are going.

He walks further in.

And hears the footsteps behind him as well. Running. Too quick and precise to be anything but following him.

Neat as a snare.

And stupid.

Hanzo goes to turn, his heart rate spiking, but the person behind him catches him in the head. Their hands twist cruelly in his hair, tugging and pulling until Hanzo falls to his knees, his back arched like a bow. His throat heaving.

The person Hanzo had heard approaching from the front steps into the alley but Hanzo can't see their face under the hood they are wearing. Too-loose jeans. Knuckle tattoos. The person behind him wrenches harder in his hair and Hanzo's eyes close, hissing through his teeth in pain.

"I think you know how this goes, pretty boy," the voice behind him says. "Empty out that wallet right there for my friend, huh, and we won't have to gut ya like a fish."

The man in front of him produces a knife. Long, wicked thin little switch blade. But Hanzo doesn't doubt the damage it could do. Maybe not as immediately lethal as the man behind him promises, but Hanzo has eyes and a throat and a pretty good imagination.

"May I move my hands?" Hanzo asks. Amazed in himself at how steady his voice sounds. Cool and detached. Like this is happening to someone else.

The knife touches his lips, cold, silver sharp.

"Don't try anything funny," the man in front of him says.

This close and Hanzo can see the man's eyes within the darkness of the hood. His mouth and nose are covered with some sort of bandana. Emblazoned with Sentaiman. Hanzo doesn't know why the detail sticks out to him over all the other things he should be paying attention to.

Sentaiman with his arms open in his standard Hero Pose.

And Hanzo is being robbed at knifepoint.

His mind cycles through his options. Self-defense classes from years ago, gone rusty. Hanzo stays in shape, but that's different than fending off an attacker with a knife and right now his mind is an absolute blank.

The knife presses harder. The edge catches Hanzo's skin and Hanzo feels the bright, singular surge of pain. Copper in the seam of his lips, dripping down his chin.

"Hurry it up," the man behind him says. "We've got places to--"

There is a thump. Hanzo gets jostled forward by the man's weight but luckily the knife goes at the wrong angle and doesn't cut him further. The man in front of him yells something, unintelligible. Garbled. He turns, takes off at a run.

A shape leaps over Hanzo.

Silver.

Black.

Green.

Hanzo sits up. It takes him a second to loose his hair from the man who had fallen on top of him. The man who is currently out cold. Hanzo stands.

Disbelieving.

And by that time, Neo Senatiman has returned, dragging the second attacker, as unconscious as the first, behind him.

Neo Sentaiman.

Hanzo's breathing catches in his throat.

The hero is shorter than he expected, is shorter than Hanzo by a little bit. The peaks of his visor make him seem taller but the top of his head would probably only come to Hanzo's throat.

Television and manga make him seem taller.

The thought is a little sobering.

"Are you all right," Sentaiman asks. His voice, though distorted by the mask, has a youthful candor that Hanzo is not quite expecting. Younger and higher pitched; a clear tenor probably, under the warping.

"I'm," Hanzo swallows. Clears his throat. His voice is trembling now, his body is, but he can blame that on the adrenaline. The whole being held at knifepoint thing. It has little and less to do with the fact that his hero (idol, crush, obsession) is standing in front of him close enough to touch.

And touch he does.

Sentaiman that is.

Hanzo startles as the hero raises his gloved hand to touch Hanzo's chin.

"Sorry," the hero says. "I should have been here sooner." The blood smudges against the white material, startlingly red, all down Sentaiman's thumb.

Hanzo shakes his head. He remembers to breathe, gasping just a little bit. "I am...okay," Hanzo says. "Thank you for helping me."

Sentaiman stands up straighter, his hands drift to his hips. Hero pose. "Of course...citizen!" His chest puffs out and Hanzo can imagine him smiling beneath the mask.

Smiling with his teeth bared, like Genji always does when he's being over dramatic.

The thought lodges wrong. Thinking of Genji at a time like this.

They stand there.

Like neither one knows the proper response to break the weird tension between them. After a moment Sentaiman bends down, begins to tie the two muggers together with a length of neon green rope he pulls from his belt.

"You don't need to stay," Sentaiman says. "I can make sure these assholes get where they're going."

Assholes.

Sentaiman doesn't say things like asshole in the comic. It's aimed for kids. But Sentaiman is just a man. Hanzo shuffles his feet.

"I'm...trying to thank you," Hanzo says as Sentaiman straightens again. Hanzo steps closer. The unchanging mask stares back at him, titled up slightly, eye contact beneath the visor Hanzo cannot see through.

Sentaiman shrugs. Exaggerated. Pantomime.

"You just thanked me," he says. There is maybe amusement in his voice, an upswing highlighted by the muffle created by the mask. "Are you sure you're okay?"

The hand touches his shoulder. Heavy, assuring weight.

Hanzo's cut has already begun to tack up. Hanzo is fine. He remembers his fantasy, though it's inappropriate and out of place.

He sinks to his knees in the dirty street anyway. Keeps his back straight to press into Sentaiman's space. The black spandex at the vee of Sentaiman's crotch, the tight stretch of fabric. Too tight. It's not hard to make out the bulge of his cock.

Hanzo is staring. He tips his head back to stare up at the unchanging mask. Lifts his hands, shaking, showing his nerves, and strokes them across that tantalizing, unarmored space.

Sentaiman's voice trips, his breath wheezing through the mask like static. His hand grabs Hanzo's wrist.

"You shouldn't...don't have to," he says. Though he hasn't pulled Hanzo's hand away. He's just holding it.

"You don't want this?" Hanzo asks. His fingers move against Sentaiman's covered cock. Bolder than he has ever been before in his desires. Something about the relative anonymity. He squeezes the bugle between his ring and middle finger, feels it twitch within the confines.

"It's not...Haaannngh," Sentaiman's voice rolls over a groan that could almost be Hanzo's name. And suddenly it's all Hanzo wants, is to hear his name gasped from under that mask, that heavy static panting breath. He wants to break Sentaiman down, work him like putty between his palms.

"It's okay," Hanzo says, shuffling closer on his knees, pushing Sentaiman's hip with his free hand until the two of them are maneuvered more fully against the wall in the alley. More out of the way. Hidden.

"Take it out," Hanzo says. His voice is thick. Sentaiman's fingers grip his shoulders, squeeze briefly before lifting away to unclasp whatever keep the spandex pulled so tightly.

"You don't have to do this," he says again. Like Hanzo would stop now. Now when Sentaiman's cock is slipping free of the material, half-hard and bobbing slightly in the air. It's proportionate to him; thick and sturdy against Hanzo's knuckles. Uncircumcised. Hanzo pushes the foreskin with his thumb, gently, coaxing it off the head as would with his own.

That thought too, of what Hanzo had done, working himself in the dark, stirs something at the base of Hanzo's spine. Shame. A rolling lick of guilt.

He leans forward instead. Noses up the length of Sentaiman's dick.

"Hnnnn--,"

Almost his name again. Bitten off, groaning.

"My name is Hanzo."

"Hanzo," Sentaiman pants. And the feeling in Hanzo's back coils and curls below his stomach. A hot familiar spike of longing. "It's gonna smell. I-I'm sweaty...you're gonna..."

He is right.

The root of his cock is damp, just slightly. And his balls. Hanzo palms them, uncaring. Bring his hand to his mouth and licks it away. Musky, thick. Clotting. Hanzo presses closer as Sentaiman shudders and heaves above him.

"Oh fuck," Sentaiman says. "Oh fuuuuck, Hanzo."

Fuck.

Another word Hanzo has never dreamed of hearing his hero say. The hard English syllables of it. Hanzo's tongue darts out, traces the prominent vein that runs the length of Sentaiman's cock.

He's never done this before.

But he's spent plenty of time lurking on the Sentai Hentai forums and the people there are more than descriptive enough.

Hanzo takes the head between his lips. Laves at it with his tongue before sliding down further on Sentaiman's cock. He minds his teeth, uses his hand at the base to guide his bobbing. The gentle motions of his head.

Sentaiman's fingers scrabble at the brick of the wall behind him. The material of the gloves catches, Hanzo can just see it out of the corner of his eye. And that just won't do.

It's a fantasy he gets to live once.

And he's going to live it.

He takes one hand in his, guides it to his head. The other he braces on Sentaiman's thigh, rubbing encouragement.

Tentatively, like he's testing the waters, Sentaiman rolls his hips. He holds Hanzo in place as he does so and his cockhead presses thick and flat against Hanzo's soft palette.

Hanzo moans. Leans impossibly closer. His pecs brushing Sentaiman's knees, the material of his shirt rubbing rough against his nipples. Sentaiman repeats the motion, his breath leaving him in a huff.

"Bhhhhnn," Sentaiman groans. Another series of sounds, aborted little starts. "Hanzo. I'm...oh. B--nnng. Close. I'm not gonna-gonna last."

It's fast.

Hanzo is a little surprised. He would not have pegged himself as good at this. Yet here Sentaiman--his hero--is melting beneath his ministrations. His hands gripping Hanzo's hair like a lifeline, hips stuttering as he pushes his cock into Hanzo's mouth.

Hanzo drags a ragged breath through his nose and doesn't let Sentaiman pull away after the next shallow thrust. He takes it all, as deep as he can, and holds it there.

Sentaiman's cock pulses in the back of his throat. Salty precome almost too much for Hanzo's sinuses. His eyes prickle but he doesn't let them close.

From the top of the alley comes a noise. A scraping clatter.

Hanzo thinks of Genji, finally come to find him.

Sentaiman looks up. And he comes at that very moment. No warning in it, just a sudden releasing spurt. Ropes of come spilling directly down Hanzo's throat.

Hanzo gags, coughs, pulls back and off rapidly. Gasping for air. Sentaiman is shaking, still coming, it streaks across Hanzo's lips, his cheek, the bridge of his nose. Thick and white and sticky.

"God," Sentaiman says, English again. "Oh Hanzo. Hanzo."

Hanzo glances to the top of the alley, hoping that Genji will be there. Dreading that Genji will be there.

But Genji is not there.

No one is.

The cut on Hanzo's face stings. He dabs at it with his thumb. Smearing what little blood there is.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," Sentaiman says. His hands have returned to his side, are tucking his cock away. Rapidly. Rapidly. "I'm so, so sorry. I...Hanzo that is...I..."

Hanzo sits back. A little confused. He wipes the come off his nose. Smears it between his fingers. "I didn't..."

"Just," Sentaiman cuts him off. Shaking his head. His finger are twitching. Hanzo's bloodstain has begun to go brown on his gloves. "I...I have to go."

And with that, he flees. Runs.

Hanzo sits stunned where he has been abandoned. Come-covered. Blushing.

This wasn't exactly how he'd imagined the end at all.


	2. Star-Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star-struck: (adjective) fascinated or greatly impressed by famous people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Qyoo for throwing money at me and making this part two happen way sooner than I meant for it to.
> 
> Blame discord for over the clothes cocksucking...

Genji is late again.

Hanzo contemplates what that could mean.

It could be innocuous, as Genji claims it is. Working over time, seeing his friends. It's not like he comes home smelling of booze and perfume, or of cheap wine and cigarettes. He usually comes home late exhausted, but not intoxicated of any sort.

It could be a girlfriend. Genji's always been a flirt, so it wouldn't be surprising. He's also a terrible gossip, so hiding it is rather out of character but then again if it's serious or scandalous or--

Hanzo sits up from where he was lounging on the couch. A key in the lock. It clicks once, twice, and the door opens.

Genji looks haggard, to say the least. His hair is mussed and getting long. He's going to look like a punk soon if he doesn't do something about it. He closes the door behind him and leans his head against it, apparently unaware of Hanzo observing him from the living room.

His shoulders sag.

The lines of his spine and hips are tense. Held in a way that to Hanzo indicates discomfort. Pain. Genji is far too young to be letting a job work the health out of his body. Especially a job as unimportant as fast food delivery.

"Welcome home," Hanzo says.

Genji startles against the door. His shoulders jump, and he hisses. Turns. He looks guilty, the duck of his head, the way his smile curls. A little bit insincere.

"Ha...big brother," he says. The smile is stiff, faltering slightly. "I didn't think you'd still be up."

It's almost two in the morning. Hanzo tips his head.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Oh?"

"I'm worried about you."

"Oh." Genji looks down at his hands. The keys to the house and his scooter hang from his fingers, clink together lightly when he clenches his hands into loose fists. "It's...you don't have to be."

"I don't?"

Genji shakes his head. "It's not like...personal, Ha-Hanzo."

The stutter is a shock. Hanzo blinks. Genji blushes. The keys are rattling again, a quiet chorus to his shaking. Shaking? He is shaking. Trembling.

Is it disgust that has kept him from coming home, from wanting to spend any time with Hanzo? Was it him at the top of the alley, watching, sickened as brother debased himself. Genji had been home when Hanzo returned, still red-cheeked and adrenaline high to the apartment.

And he's been weird ever since.

Hanzo frowns.

"Genji." That isn't the way to start this. Genji flinches at the use of his name. He won't look at Hanzo, is staring resolutely at the ceiling. Hanzo softens his tone, leans forward on the couch.

To seem more inviting.

"Just...talk to me, please." Hanzo moves his hands in useless little arc. Genji doesn't move from his place by the door. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

And it really only leaves Hanzo one option.

"You saw, didn't you?" Hanzo asks.

Genji does look at him then. His gaze snaps to meet Hanzo's and his face goes scarlet. His mouth opens. Closes. His eyes shift away.

The keys jingle together in his grip.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies.

The last straw of it. Hanzo feels his patience wane. Something irreplaceable in him shifts, doesn't shatter, but Hanzo has never looked at it from this fragile an angle before.

He always sort of assumed Genji would love him no matter what. Would always be there to tease him and prod at him when he needed it. He was, apparently, terribly wrong in that.

Hanzo stands. He moves toward his room without another word.

Because what can he say? He isn't sorry, not really, and he isn't ashamed--well perhaps a little, but not for the right reasons.

"Brother," Genji says. "I didn't--"

But Hanzo isn't listening. He closes the door to his room. And the conversation is done.

\--

He watches the news. Alone in the apartment a few days later.

He has the volume muted, is really only watching the information flit across the screen. It leaves no impression. Until he sees the familiar flit of green and silver. Hanzo sits up. His hands unsteady enough on the remote he almost drops it turning the television up.

"--to you live with our very first chance to talk to the hero," the announcer says. "So tell us Sentaiman: what made you decide to take on such a dangerous career?"

Sentaiman, faceless, complete covered, still manages to look tired somehow. Just a little haggard. His shoulders slump. The mask tips. Hero Pose, but clearly exhausted. He's always been too fleet footed to be caught by the media this way.

"Someone had to," Sentaiman says. "No one else was so..." he shakes his head. His hands move in concentric, useless circles. There is a spot on his left glove, brown, small, right along the seam of the thumb. No one not looking for it would notice.

Hanzo notices. His gut clenches.

The reporter looks puzzled. Like she expected something else. Something more eloquent. She chuckles, good natured, trying to save this train wreck of an interview.

Behind them lights flash. The police. A man has been lashed to a postbox. His head dangles between his knees. A bike discarded on the street beside him.

Sentaiman glances over his shoulder.

"I--I have to go! Stay safe, citizens!" And then he turns and runs.

Hanzo can still taste him on his tongue. The weight of it, his cock full and thick.

Hanzo mutes the tv again as the camera turns back to the interviewer, she smiles--flustered--and her mouth moves in little circles.

Hanzo looks away.

He stares at the ceiling.

It's rather hard to define exactly how he feels about the whole thing. Thrilled a little bit at his own boldness. He would do it again, would do it the same, if the opportunity presented itself. Thinking about the way Sentaiman had huffed and sighed, the sounds slipping from under the mask, has Hanzo's pulse throbbing in his throat.

Arousal so acute he can taste it.

Disappointment is there too. He knows nothing about this man. He doesn't. He could be anyone under that mask. Anyone.

Anyone.

Some sleazy asshole trying to make up for the wrong that he's done. Or something. Anyone.

Hanzo presses the heel of hands against his eyelids. Explosions of white. Of yellow and green.

Gray and green.

God, he's so fucked.

\--

He jolts awake some time later. The television is still on, miming through its programmed routine. A woman with her hair up is trying to sell him a coffee maker with the waves of her hands. Hanzo sits up fully, turns the tv off.

A blanket he doesn't remember laying over himself puddles around his waist. He touches the plush weave, tries to figure out what woke him. The blanket is warm with leeched heat, someone put it over him a while ago.

Genji's keys are not on the hook by the door.

Came in, covered him and left again.

Hanzo shakes his head. He folds the blanket and puts it on the back of the couch. His mouth tastes like sleep, thick, nasty. He stands, stretches.

Something in the house clatters.

Hanzo jumps, nerves still a little sleep-muddled, sensitive to the sudden, jarring crash. He grabs the arm of the couch, looks around.

Another noise. A thump of something (someone) hitting carpet. Genji's room.

Hanzo looks to the hook again. His keys on the first peg, Genji's empty one second.

So an intruder. Of all things.

Hanzo creeps toward the room. The door is closed, firmly shut. Hanzo clenches his hands at his sides.

When they were younger, Genji played baseball, Hanzo wishes now he had that heavy bat. But of course it is in Genji's room if his brother was even sentimental enough to keep it.

Genji in the sun, grinning, the brim of the baseball cap shadowing his eyes. Hanzo doesn't know why the memory surfaces with the clarity that it does. Watching Genji's game, years ago now, years ago, and there's dew on his ankles and the sky is overcast but the sun is still shining.

Hanzo shakes his head. He grips the handle to Genji's room. Holding his breath, laying his hand upon the knob as silently as possible.

Surprise can be his ally here.

He steels his nerves, flexes his abs. Counts to five in his head.

Counts to ten.

Fifteen.

Behind the door, muffled, whispered, someone curses.

Hanzo throws the door open. It bangs against the opposite wall, loud like a gunshot.

The intruder--

Looks up.

And Hanzo freezes in the door frame.

Because he is staring at Neo Sentaiman. 

Sentaiman in Genji's room. Intruding. Break in? The window has been slid open. Unlocked? Purposefully? Accidentally? Genji is not here, did Genji plan this? Has Sentaiman come to see Hanzo? Was this a mistake? Is this cosplay? A crime? Fake? Or--

Hanzo's brain stalls long enough for him to notice the blood. Dripped over Genji's bedsheets, trailing over the window ledge. Sentaiman's hand is pushed against his side. The black material that hugs his obliques is shiny. More bloodstains on Sentaiman's white gloves.

"Sentai..."

The hero seems to panic. He's turned and is heading back for the window when Hanzo grabs him by the arm.

Reels him around.

"You're hurt," Hanzo says. "Just stop."

Sentaiman freezes. His arm is stiff in Hanzo's grip, the muscle like steel. His other is still holding his side. The material is torn, beneath his fingers, smeared with dark blood. Hanzo pulls and reluctantly Sentaiman steps closer. He isn't looking at Hanzo, his chin is hooked over his opposite shoulder.

Hanzo has seen this before.

But there are still things he can and cannot accept about it.

"Sentaiman," he says, shaking the arm in his hand, gentle so as not to jostle the wounded side. "Let me help you."

For a long moment Sentaiman is silent. Hanzo listens to him breathe, every highlighted, filtered exhale.

"Hanzo," he says, finally. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing. Sit. Wait here. Let me get the--"

"It's under the bed," Sentaiman says. Hanzo can hear the sound of him licking his lips beneath the mask at the confession. "I've been using it a lot lately."

Hanzo takes this knowledge in. Part of him balks. A larger part of him has sort of always known. "Sit," he says again. "Tell me what happened."

"How I started?"

Hanzo shakes his head, quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. His fingers tighten on Sentaiman's wrist. "How you got hurt."

Sentaiman swallows. He lowers himself to the edge of the bed. His hand releases his side for Hanzo's inspection. "Got stupid," he says. "I've been. That is...I-I wanted you to be..."

Hanzo pushes the material further away from the wound and Sentaiman's voice dissolves into a groan.

"The guy had a gun," Sentaiman says. "Winged me on the approach. I think it's only bleeding so much cuz..."

Sentaiman is right, it isn't very deep. The shallow wound runs right along his ribs. Hanzo rubs his thumb on the skin just beneath it and Sentaiman shivers again. Another sound from between his teeth.

"You wanted to impress me," Hanzo says.

"I wanted to make you proud. I...I just feel so bad," Sentaiman says. "Cuz I...I lied basically and. And. And. You. It was wrong and--"

"And I offered."

"Hanzo. You didn't...didn't know who I was. I let you."

"I offered." Hanzo shrugs. He bends to grab the first aid kit from where it has been jammed beneath Genji's bed. The roll of medical tape has been used almost completely. Hanzo fishes out a few gauze pads, the tweezers and antibacterial gel.

"Lean to the side," he says laying his tools out next to Sentaiman's hip. "Arm up. And spread your legs, I'm going to need room to work."

"Hanzo, you--"

"I'm not asking." He waves his hand, knocking his fingers against Sentaiman's knees. "You got yourself shot for me, it's the least I can do."

Again Sentaiman listens, though it seems reluctant. His knees slide apart. Hanzo doesn't stare too long at the bulge at the front of the uniform, highlighted further by the obscene spread, but he does look.

The fact that his attraction hasn't dimmed in the least only registers with him as a little odd. He's always loved his brother. This is just another, stranger aspect of that, he supposes.

"Hanzo," Sentaiman gasps, as Hanzo wipes the first gauze pad against the wound. His fingers twist in the bed spread. The arm he has raised in the air shakes.

"Shh." Hanzo says. "You're right, it's not deep. This will only take a moment."

The unchanging mask remains unchanging. Sentaiman's knee presses against Hanzo's side. He hisses again at the application of the antibacterial ointment, the muscles of his body going rigid beneath Hanzo's hands.

"I'm sorry," Hanzo says. He leans in, intent on his work, on securing the second gauze pad over the cut, when Sentaiman all but whimpers above him.

Hanzo pauses.

He looks up.

Sentaiman is looking at the ceiling. Even under the material covering his neck, Hanzo can see the way his throat quivers. Adam's apple bobbing.

"Certainly you must have had worse before," Hanzo says. He can recall without actively trying a few times Genji has had it worse, there's a scar on his collar bone from a tumble off a bike years ago, another on his lower belly from attempting to scale a barbed wire fence with his punk friends.

But he doesn't mention them.

And Sentaiman just shakes his head. Hanzo can imagine him licking his lips, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners. He doesn't need to see it, he doesn't really want to.

Hanzo glances down.

It's only natural.

"Don't--" Sentaiman gasps. His knees close around Hanzo's waist. The metal of his leg guards presses hard enough to bruise. "Don't look."

Hanzo is already looking.

The spandex is stretched obscenely over Sentaiman's cock. Clinging to every inch of it as it hardens. Absolutely filthy.

Hanzo let's a breath out from his nose.

"Sorry," Sentaiman says. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Hanzo. Don't...it's not. It's just cuz last time you were--and. It isn't--Don't look at it, okay? Just."

Sentaiman is babbling. His hand touches Hanzo's chin, tilts his head up. The glove isn't fully dry yet. Blood on Hanzo's chin, blood against his lip.

"Do you think I am upset with you, Sentaiman?" Hanzo asks. He touches the knee that is digging into him still. Runs his fingers up the spandex-clad thigh.

"You don't have to call me that, Hanzo."

"It doesn't matter. I want to. Answer my question, do you think I am mad at you?"

"Aren't you? I lied. I...you thought I was someone else and..."

"And I chose to do it knowing I knew nothing about you." Hanzo lets his finger trail higher, a teasing little pinch against the fabric at Sentaiman's femoral artery. He imagines he can feel the blood there, pumping double time. Frantic like Sentaiman's breathing. "I know a little more about you now, but it doesn't change anything. I would still do it, if you would let me."

"Ha-Hanzo you don't..." Sentaiman swallows, audible. His fingers move to hold Hanzo's wrist.

They have been in this position before. And again Sentaiman doesn't push him away.

"You don't know what you're saying," Sentaiman says. "Or you're still confused somehow. Hanzo, it's me, it's--"

Hanzo surges up before he can finish the sentence. The mask has no true, discernible mouth, but Hanzo pushes his lips against it regardless. And it has the desired effect. Sentaiman stops talking. His sentence stutters out into nothing.

Hanzo tips his head back. His breath fogs the chrome.

"I don't care," he says. "It doesn't matter."

It's so out of character. Hanzo is the detail oriented one, the worrier, the triple checker. Sentaiman shakes his head again. Hanzo can see his own reflection in the visor. He rubs the thumb of his free hand through the bloom of fog until it too is reflective once more.

"I know who you are," Hanzo says, "and I know what I want. Will you let me?"

Sentaiman breathes. And breathes. Slowly, finger by finger, he releases Hanzo's wrist. The outline of his boner has remained unchanged. Hanzo grazes his knuckles against it. Drags them up and down.

Sentaiman shudders. Just as sensitive as last time. Is it normal, Hanzo wonders, is it always like this?

He sits back on his heels. Levels his face with Sentaiman's crotch. He noses at the bulge and immediately Sentaiman's hands thread into his hair. Holding gently. Like last time. Learning. He flinches slightly toward the injured side and Hanzo rests his chin against Sentaiman's erection as he speaks.

"You don't have to hurt yourself for it," he says. "Just let me do the work this time, okay?"

Sentaiman nods. A quiet "Yes" drifts from the filters in the mask.

Hanzo tilts his head back down, teasing gently with his lips, sucking against the fabric right near the head when Sentaiman groans, curses. He laves at it with his tongue making the spandex shiny with spittle, scraping his teeth gently down the length of it.

Sentaiman sounds like he's breaking. The mask muffling most of his words, the sudden huffing cascade of them. What he is saying doesn't matter anyway. Actions speak louder than words. His hips flex. There is an undeniable pulse beneath Hanzo's lips.

"Are you coming?" Hanzo says, over a grin. Mirroring the way Genji has said so many thing to him.

Sentaiman shakes his head, his fingers grip tighter. His hips rut up again, humping Hanzo's chin. "Nnn-no," he says. "Just...Hanzo please."

"Is it sweaty again?"

"Mmmhm. Probably. I...I didn't want you to think I was gross the first time."

"But I like you gross," Hanzo says. He presses a kiss to the armor over Sentaiman's lower belly. Right over where the twisting little scar would be.

Sentaiman cups the back of Hanzo's head. The hand on his injured side frees his cock.

"Should I take the helmet off?" he asks.

"Will you be upset if I say no?"

Sentaiman's cock is leaking precome. It drools from the tip, slides pearlescent down until Hanzo wipes it away with his pointer. He is sweaty, a slight sheen of it in the seam of his balls, the soft skin around his cock.

He shaves, he must, Hanzo hadn't taken that detail in before and now it's all he can think of.

Sentaiman's hand gently pulls him back in. He guides his dick against Hanzo's lips, smearing more precome at the corners. Hanzo tongue darts out and Sentaiman's steady breathing falters.

"It doesn't upset me," Sentaiman says. "Who do you want me to be, Hanzo?"

"You. Just you."

"Okay." Sentaiman swallows. He thumbs lightly at Hanzo's lips. Coaxing them open. And Hanzo lets him lead, hums in agreement when Sentaiman begins to feed his cock in. Gentle. Oh so gentle.

Like those first thrusts had been in the alley.

Tentative.

Testing.

Like Hanzo will change his mind now. Like Hanzo will leave or decide he isn't into it. And they can't have that.

So Hanzo takes it back.

He pushes forward, sits up enough to have full control over the motion again. Sinks down on Sentaiman's cock a little too quickly. He has to pull back, cough thick and wet into his fist.

"You okay?" Sentaiman asks. True concern. Hanzo waves him off and immediately goes back in. He relaxes his throat, swallows down until there is no more room to go.

Sentaiman's fingers tighten in his hair as Hanzo swallows around him. He can't breathe, not really, the shallow, ragged drags from his nose are barely enough to reach his lungs past the cock blocking his windpipe.

Hanzo writhes, stays down there even though his eyes are watering and drool is slipping from the corners of his mouth. He presses the heel of his palm against his own straining erection. Rubs right at the head, grinds down with a pressure that would be uncomfortable if he weren't so worked up.

"Oh, Hanzo," Sentaiman says. His voice surprisingly calm. The mask (helmet Sentaiman had called it, what a nerd, what a nerd) either has filtered out the trembling, or he is not as nervous this time. "I wish you could see yourself." His hips move, an undulating little thrust that has his cockhead bumping against the back of Hanzo's throat.

Has Hanzo seeing stars.

Gold and black and blue and vibrating at the edges of his vision.

"Oh fuck," Sentaiman says. English again, that sharp, bisecting k. "Can I come in your throat? Hanzo? Oh big brother, oh fuck, oh fuck."

Hanzo nods, as best he can with the tight way Sentaiman is holding his hair, and Sentaiman all but collapses in on himself. His one boot catches on Hanzo's shin, presses in until the imprint of his sole is left in the skin. Hanzo feels it, almost too rough, almost too much.

His own cock twitches in his pants as Sentaiman does just as he promised and comes down Hanzo's throat. Thick come, all on the back of his tongue. Swallowed down, swallowed down like it's oxygen.

Which it's not.

White stars have joined bleeding across Hanzo's vision. All consuming.

Sentaiman's cock slips out of his throat.

Hanzo takes a deep, shuddering, reflexive pull of air.

The stars explode.

And he's coming in his pants.

The orgasm wracks through him. Undoes every worry, every knot; leaves him gasping in Sentaiman's lap as a melted, pliable mess. His face is pressed against the hard plastic thigh guard Sentaiman wears. When he picks his head up he can feel the indent the unforgiving material has left on his cheek.

Sentaiman touches it. Traces it. His side is bleeding again. Slow and thick. Clotting. Hanzo blinks. He extracts himself from the cage of Sentaiman's legs.

"Okay?" The upswing is there. Hanzo doesn't pretend that he can't hear it. The concern, the terrified hope.

Hanzo licks his lips. Tugs the collar of his shirt up to wipe some of the mess from his chin. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm..."

He considers.

What is he?

What has changed? Nothing that wasn't for the better. What has he lost? What has he gained?

"I'm happy," he says. Finally.

He can't see Genji's face beneath the Sentaiman helmet, but he doesn't need to to imagine the smile there.

He pretends it doesn't mean as much to him as it does. But maybe, just maybe, he can stop pretending now.


End file.
